


The Storm

by princegrisejoie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hunting, M/M, Nightmares, Past Relationship(s), Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Timeline What Timeline, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:59:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrisejoie/pseuds/princegrisejoie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had always been drifting, fighting against the winds. He finally sank. - Prompt was : "Somehow the Boltons are in possession of poor Robb's head. Ramsay uses it to break Theon's mind ." AU/Canon Divergence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Finally I am able to post this fanfic in English ! This is a translation of "La Tempête", which was the first ASOIAF fanfiction I uploaded here. Many thanks to [Majora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Majora) and [Lavinia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine), it wouldn't have possible without you !  
> "Enjoy" !  
> For those interested, there is also a Russian version of this fic : http://7kingdoms.ru/talk/threads/2460/ (thanks to Lady Snark)

His eyes finally snapped open. Looking around, he realized that he was locked up in a tiny cell composed of three damp stone walls and metal bars.

He frowned, trying to remember what in the seven hells happened in the last hours, but the feeling  of snow on his broken face, the smell of burning flesh, the clash of steel and the sound of men shouting were all slurred together into a haze of confusion.

_What is this place anyway? Not Winterfell, we do not have those kind of cells… Anyway, seems I am once again a prisoner._

_Great._

Though he couldn’t tell where he was, he –at least- knew for sure where he was not.  That was a start.

After a while, he managed to stand up, leaning his back against the far wall. His legs were numb and his entire body felt heavy and painful, nonetheless he endeavored to pick the large, rusty lock securing the door. He couldn’t bear being left to rot in a filthy prison cell in the middle of nowhere. That would be a fate far worse than death to him.

For one second, the pride of the Prince he was – _tried to be_ \- rushed through his veins and gave him the courage he had not otherwise.

He bent over to examine the lock, hoping to find a way to break it, but his hands were shaking too much. He cursed loudly and let go of the lock and burrowed his aching head into his hands. His eyes burned and his head was pounding like it had repeatedly been hit with a hammer.

His body violently shook with pain and then lost memories flooded his mind, the banner of the Starks flapping over the men who came to chop his head off was the most vivid of them.   
He remembered the fear, the smell of sweat and blood and the distant cries of his dying enemies: “traitors, traitors!”

_You will not die a hero. No bard will sing songs of your sacrifice; no one will remember your battles, no minstrel will ever chant your name. You can only greet death as a friend if she deems you worthy._

When he had dared to look up again, a dozen horsemen had been waiting at Winterfell's gates.  
No Kraken had come to rescue him, only those sinister pink raiders and their threatening banner.  
A flayed man, ever screaming in a silent agony.

He had opened the gates, a mistake he regretted as soon as his loyal servant took off his red helm and claimed Winterfell, although the former Prince had tried to square his shoulders and lift his head in pride.

 _He is no savior, merely a thief who took away the only thing I hold dear_.

What kind of thief would burn away the treasure he just stole?

Engulfed in the flames, ravaged by fire, the castle had tried to resist but with no more Stark to defend Winterfell, it couldn’t protect its inhabitants for long.

 _"If only you had a hundred archers as good as yourself, you might have a chance to hold the castle",_ the words of a dead man came back into mind, echoing in the darkness of his cell.

 _Please, make it stop_.

His own weakness disgusted him: what had the Prince of Winterfell been doing while the ancestral seat of House Stark was being sacked by a bastard? Why did he feel relieved when those barbarians had come to save him? A true wolf would have gladly given his life to protect his home.

A flash of pain that made his head spin crossed his body. He was nothing now, nothing but pain and terror.

Terror…

Theon blinked, only to realize that the lock had magically vanished and so had the cell. An exhilarating sense of liberty ran through him, he felt light-headed and powerful, surprised to find out that he could breathe again, relieved from hopelessness, fear and guilt.

_No, it’s a trap. Don’t fall for that !_

He was in the middle of a dark but equally familiar forest, surrounded by a row of large trees.  
The wind was blowing through the trees, rustling the leaves, and it sounded like it was murmuring something to him in a language that he could not understand.

A loud, desperate cry of agony broke the silence of the wood and his face turned ashen.

Could it be possible that he was back into the Wolfswood?

His weak body stiffened at the thought, as tough it remembered something his mind had forgotten. He was a fearful statue, unable to move or breathe.

_A nightmare, it’s a nightmare and you do not fear them._

If the fallen Prince of Winterfell had learnt something in the North, it was how to escape from nightmares.

_Close your eyes. You’re free, now. You picked the lock, you ran away._

Something growled beside him, close, too close. He opened his eyes, unable to keep them closed much longer.

_I can’t even protect myself._

His eyes widened in horror when he spotted the dozen of dogs enthusiastically devouring a mass of flesh – _was it human_? He didn’t even try to hold back his scream, this time.

They were moving slowly towards him, stepping carefully around the mess, as though they were sure he wouldn’t escape.

_I told you it was a trap, a trap, a trap…._

He would have gladly gone down on his knees and begged for a painless death. Nothing seemed sweeter than the quick move of a sharp blade. Then, he would be free. Free from fear and madness.

 _Don’t you understand, fool? It’s a trap, you cannot win_.

He was standing there, rooted to the spot, his eyes tightly shut, tears and cold sweat running down his face.

Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

The colorless forest turned crimson, like the tattered body lying on the ground. The last thing he saw before he collapsed was the queerly pale eyes of his savior glowing in the dark, his mouth pulled back into a sardonic smile.

 

His eyes fluttered open again ( _were they even closed?_ ) and for one moment he hoped he was dead. The grim smile of his white eyed savior came back haunting him and his eyes welled with tears.  
He wiped them away hastily, berating himself once again.

Was it a nightmare ? An old memory ? He checked out his surroundings and spitted out of anger.  
He was back in this damn filthy cage, still out of breath and shaking from his nightmare.

When he was younger, the flames of the Baratheons, the blades of the Starks, and then the corpses of children and hungry wolves haunted his nights. Now, his worst nightmares were the remains of forlorn hopes and broken promises.

_One gets used to everything._

On his right arm, he saw the black, swollen wound and a flash of pain coursed through his body. He coughed sharply and, remembering he was still a Prince, muffled a scream.

_What for? There are kings everywhere now, it means nothing._

He heard the distant sound of a door opening outside the dungeon room. At once, he began to panic, feeling like a trapped animal, hands sticky with sweat.

_No, no, no, please, no. It’s your fault, you screamed, you made him come back, he’s coming now._

The footsteps sounded like heavy bangs on a drum and Theon could hear the other prisoners whimper in fear. Was he still dreaming? That was not likely; reality was often more cruel than his nightmares.

The loud sound stopped and he heard the keys clattered right outside the door. Stiff as stone, he lifted his head up but dropped his eyes to the floor. He was proud, yet careful. Dishonored, pathetic, hated but still a man.

 _It was a trap_.

Like children, who fear the monster living in their closet more than a tangible threat, Theon naively thought he would be less afraid if he tried to face his savior.

_Liar-liar-saviour-liar-saviour-liar._ _The master of false hopes._

Ramsay Snow – Bolton. Remember, always call him Bolton – was standing in front of him. His lips stretched into a smile. A hungry smile.

"Ramsay." Theon whispered faintly in a burst of courage, “What do I owe the pleasure?”

He tried to keep his voice even. His outward composure was all he had left since the men of Bolton burned his horse, broke his bow and destroyed Winterfell.

_Since he had left Riverrun and decided that his loyalty lied with his family._

 "Watch your language.” warned Ramsay softly, kneeling beside him. Even on his knees, he was bigger and larger than Theon ever was. His stomach churned horribly.

_He’ll try to break your mind too. Stay calm or he will hurt you._

Without warning, Ramsay put his gloved hand on his prisoner's neck and slowly trailed his finger from his cheek to the curve of his neck.

_He feeds on your fears. Do not tremble, do not moan, breathe._

The smell of leather was nauseating. Theon turned his head nervously, and despite his efforts, a plaintive murmur escaped him.

"Do not be afraid, my dear prince, I did not come for that tonight.”

The knot in his chest loosened slightly with the relief of knowing Ramsay would not touch him, though his fears were by no means banished. He gathered all his courage and glared at Ramsay darkly. Once, he had been defiant and daring but now, those white pits made his blood turn to ice every time.

"Truth be told, I am quite impressed. I thought our little hunting party would be enough to break you. But there you are, clinging to your tattered dignity with such desperation! " Ramsay said silkily.

“So you _do_ value your life, my dear traitor.”

A mingled feeling of pride and self hatred rose like bile in his throat. He tried to maintain a serene expression, but he had never known how to hide his feelings with something more efficient than a cocky smile.

Lord Ramsay knows everything.

"As for your body…” murmured Ramsay in a way that made Theon shudder, “I have all the time to take care of it”

Ramsay's gloved hand firmly grabbed his wounded arm and shook it hard, as if he wanted to dislocate it from his shoulder. A cry of pain and terror broke from Theon’s lips as he tried to tear his arm away from his jailor, with little success.

Ramsay stopped suddenly, letting his prey breathe a little, but quickly resumed his torture, even harder than before.

_The master of false hopes._

His breath was coming in sobs, even when Ramsay cupped his face in his hands, whispering soft, comforting, words to him. That brutal beast always turned into a soft spoken liar with such surprising ease…  
  
"Do not fret; it was only a foretaste of the feast to come. You should thank me, my sweet prince. You have not been punished when you tried to escape with that bitch ... "

Theon closed his eyes. He remembered Kyra writhing, eyes full of terror, screaming, calling for help. In the darkness, dogs and wolves were strangely alike. He had been paralyzed by fear and owed his life to Ramsay, who had forbidden his bitches to approach him.

He had saved him, somehow.

"And I won’t be playing with you today.”

He glanced up. Ramsay was staring at him, his expression unreadable. Was he lying? It could still be one of his beloved, cruel games that Theon pretended not to fear.

Lying to himself has always been his way not to suffer too much.

"What are you doing in my cell, then?” he muttered under his breath, fearing an angry outburst.

He knew perfectly well discussing with Ramsay was tricky. He had paid the price for it more than once.  
 

"Obviously, the life and death of other people does not interest you. That is not surprising: you're a traitor. Traitors only care about themselves, this is why they have a considerable life expectancy ...” replied Ramsay, strangely affable.

His gloved hand was back on his face, lightly tracing the white paths on his neck, lingering on his Adam’s apple.

He continued: “Rumor has it Theon Greyjoy betrayed his beloved King... because he was too eager to take Winterfell. Is that true?”

Repressed memories broke across the surface of his mind, sharp and painful as stab wounds.  
   
He saw the young man he used to be laughing, one hand casually resting on the large shoulder of a red haired man, he saw himself, eager and proud to sacrifice his life for his only friend, he saw Theon Greyjoy kneeling before the one true King of Westeros.

He saw Theon, whose undying loyalty made people talk and laugh. Could you imagine a hostage being so devoted to his captors?

He remembered Theon, whose jokes could make exhausted warriors laugh and relax.  
He was Theon, the man whose arms hold a grieving Robb Stark tightly against his chest when his father was killed.

It was but a ghost, now.

"The Starks were my jailers. I have not betrayed anyone. I just went home.”

His voice was quavering and he felt ashamed of himself as tears stung his eyes. Pathetic. Weak.  
    
"Only your name makes you a Greyjoy. Has Balon Greyjoy ever shed a tear over his son? Has Asha Greyjoy stopped fighting to mourn her brother? Do you actually believe the ironborn will build a statue for you? " Ramsay replied slowly, straying over each syllable,  “You're nothing and you have lost everything. “

His voice echoed in the prison. Theon hoped that other prisoners were too exhausted to hear.  
The undeniable truth of the words Ramsay said was worse than all he had been put through before.  
   
"You're a selfish coward, and you did nothing" continued Ramsay. He put the emphasis on the last part of his sentence. Theon was proud, yet not proud enough to protest against the truth.

He looked down.

"The North wanted to hang you. But I was the one to catch you.  And, frankly my dear, that was terribly easy.” Ramsay was close, enveloping Theon in his shadow, “You’ve opened the door, my dear prince!”

“Unchain me and I will serve you” chuckled Ramsay, imitating the loyal servant he had so perfectly played.

Theon clenched his fists. How could he have been so stupid? Freeing a prisoner of the Starks!  
He, who knew nothing about real freedom.

"What do you want from me? “ Theon whispered. He tried to sound threatening, but he barely sounded annoyed.  Still, he refused to call him 'Lord Ramsay' like those obsequious fools in the other cells.

Sometimes, when Ramsay visited him, he could hear their cries of terror and their pitiful sighs and he found himself hating them.

What are you afraid of? Ramsay is my punishment, he comes for me, just for me. Always for me.  
    
He was so ashamed to feel almost proud of that special attention.

   
"I do not want anything from you," said Ramsay, his lips a cruel imitation of a smile. He ran a finger over the open wound on Theon’s arm. "You always give me everything I want.”  
   
Theon flinched.

'I love when they resist me, I love when they scream, fight and beg’ Ramsay had told him after their hunt.

Whatever Theon decided to do, he was doomed to lose. He thought bitterly that Ramsay was dazzlingly skilled in his field.

"Do what you want, I will accept it. I am yours to enjoy today, it won’t be much fun for you.” spat Theon.  
  
It was his last hope. Perhaps, tired of the consent of his prisoner, Ramsay would go away.  
   
"Everything happens!” said Ramsay merrily. “However, I have no intention of taking somethingI have a present for you, my sweet prince”

   
The nickname was not affectionate, yet he pronounced it with such delight in his voice ... Theon repressed a shudder. A new anxiety seized him, so intense he could barely breathe.  
  
Ramsay had a gift to make his nightmares sweeter than reality.

"Do you remember your beloved king? The only man you’ve bent your knee to. The same young wolf you betrayed a few months ago for a family that was not even yours?"  
   
Robb Stark.

He wanted to say his name, it has been an eternity since he had, but it would have pleased Ramsay too much.

_He feeds from your fears._

His colorless eyes were burning with excitement. The last son of Roose Bolton made a small gesture of the hand, his eyes never leaving Theon. Two men entered, placing a big wooden box beside Theon.  
   
"This ceremony needs a public" explained Ramsay who looked beside himself with excitement. "It shall be remembered”.

Theon felt a horrible jolt of dread as Ramsay laughed. Ramsay’s men were laughing loudly too and the knot in Theon’s stomach tightened. How dared those worthless pigs laugh…? He glared at them, without thinking.

Ramsay noticed - he always noticed everything – and a satisfied smile stretched on his lips. He silenced his men with a wave of the hand and whispered in his ear: "I thought you’d like to say goodbye.”

  
He could hardly breathe; trembling so violently.

Goodbye... to whom?

Of course, he knew the answer. But Theon couldn’t accept it. Robb Stark was invincible, or at least, undefeated. He could wield a sword perfectly, fought furiously. He rode a wolf and became one on the battlefield. He was feared, admired, envied. Who could defeat such a man?  
  
_A boy. He’s still a boy._

The cold was agony, it burnt him like fire, cleaved him like a sword’s stroke.

"The last time that Robb Stark was seen, he was with his Lady Mother at a wedding. But it seems like it went quite wrong.... " Ramsay tilted his head to one side, a mirthless smile curling his mouth.  
  
Theon wanted to disappear, but he stood his ground fiercely, determined not to flinch.  
   
"A betrayal… it could have been two. " Ramsay whispered. "Geez ..."

_Do not flinch._

"Now, open the box. I unlocked it for you," he ordered, standing up.

Theon kept his gaze fixed on the dirty floor of the cell. If he refused to open that damn box, maybe Ramsay would leave.

He was lying. It was... it could not be that. Robb was somewhere with Catelyn Stark and his loyal bannermen, around a table, examining a huge map of the continent, planning one of those bold strategies he was fond of. He was stroking his wolf, thinking of his father, his sisters, and regretted Winterfell and those precious moments, forever lost.

He must hate him, somewhere around the capital where they could have entered both as conquerors.  
   
But he was not dead.

The thought of Robb’s body, cold and inert, forever frozen by death, was absurd.  
   
"You do not want to open it ? '

He wanted to scream, to claw the bastard’s face, to make it bloody and tattered, like Kyra’s body.  
  
No, he did not want to open that thing. No, he would not fall into this kind of trap.

He shook his head, his eyes riveted on the floor. 

"All right. As you wish”

He heard Ramsay standing up. He heard him open the box without hesitation and remove something. It could be anything. However, he felt his breathing quicken, and in the space of one second, he almost choked.

  
Part of him wanted to know what was in the box. Another pleaded for eternal blindness, for death and peace of mind.

"Oh, a little more damaged than I thought," Ramsay commented in a thoughtful tone.  
  
He closed his eyes. Thus, he thought desperately, he would not be tempted to watch.  
   
"Please to meet you, young King in the North, I’ve always wanted to speak with you."  
   
Theon struggled not to look. Each word drained hope from his heart and soul, his mind wiped of all thought.  
   
"... But alas! We’re quite out of time, aren’t we? Oh, but, where is your body? "

Theon swallowed hard, his head threatening to burst with pain. Ramsay was playing as always, he’s always been good at story telling.

   
"I was told your head had been cut off! Fortunately, they were generous enough to give you another one! Maybe they shouldn’t have called you the Young Wolf… Some people have no sense of humor, you know?”

The hilarity mounted. It was a loud, cruel, disgusting laugh.

  
 "My father was good enough to send your head here ... oh, yes, because it still has someone to say hello!" Ramsay singsonged, his voice quivering with sheer anger.

 

"Your precious traitor ... -a wreck, if you want my opinion- will soon flow like a boat."

   
The darkness was so comforting. He refused to play along; he was not going to break…. Not when he could pretend to dream, not when there was still a flicker of hope.

 

 You've trained with Robb. He cannot die.

"I’ve spoken enough. I should leave you two to… catch up…. after such a bad breakup, you should have a lil’ chat !”

  
The mingled smells of leather, blood and rotten flesh filled his nostrils.

   
"Catch that, my dear prince! '

 

Once, he boasted about his quick reflexes. They betrayed him.

 

His eyes opened, his arms stretched out and his frozen fingers clenched around a cold, limp thing.  
The dream state he was in was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him when he looked at Ramsay’s gift.

  
Auburn hair, beautiful and curly, passed between his fingers. His skin, once fair with some freckles on his nose, was now greenish and rough.

_I know it's my fault, I know, I know, I know ... but you will win, you’ll go back to Winterfell victorious, some things haven’t burned there, you can ..._

He met the eyes, blue, so blue, of a dead man.

He had worshipped those eyes.

The head of the king in the North rolled at the feet of Ramsay Bolton, who bent down to pick it.  
  
"How did your last conversation go? I guess he cried a lot, his eyes are all red. I warned you, Robb, this man is a real wreck.”

He was addressing Robb’s head, but his white, empty eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Theon’s face.  
  
Theon did not react.  Ramsay frowned slightly, but continued:

"For a Greyjoy, that's funny : he’s sinking like a boat, what a disaster! I did not think seeing you again would be so hard, my apologies. He can be so disappointing, can’t he? Has the mention of your mutilated body hanging in between the Twins even moved him? Oh, yes, it has. Watch him cry... Poor baby kraken ! That’s pathetic."

Ramsay threw behind him the decapitated head with disinterest. He looked furious, even though he faked a childish enthusiasm, and his men were not laughing anymore.

"What will my boys do with the head of Robb Stark?" Ramsay wondered. "Maybe they’ll play with it, kick it, give it to my bitches? Who knows? Who cares?”

"Stop it."

Ramsay knelt, moving slowly forward, apparently satisfied.

"Stop it? For a sinking ship, you’re quite insolent.”

"I beg you to stop.”

"You’re beggining to learn some manners. Continue, and I will offer a decent treatment to Stark’s pretty head.”

"I’m begging you.”

Ramsay laughed a mirthless laugh.

"Well, seems playtime is over. We’ll start tomorrow then. “

Theon heard himself whisper a question.

"What will begin? Your redemption, of course! You must have a lot of things to be forgiven for. I don’t give a fuck about justice and Robb Stark, but it sure gave an interesting aspect to our little chat.”  
   
He grabbed Theon’s limp hands and played with his fingers thoughtfully.

Theon's thoughts were more confused than his nightmares ever were. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t anymore. He noticed that there was no lock on the door.

There would be no need. He wouldn’t flee anymore. He had nowhere to go.

  
A sinking ship.

 Ramsay kissed his fingers.

"You were an excellent archer, weren’t you?  We will start there. “  
  
He had always been drifting, fighting against the winds. He finally sank.


End file.
